


together or not at all

by ninemoons42



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bathtubs, Canon Compliant, Introspection, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3765454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they do together is important. What they do together helps them get better. What they do together binds them closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. STEVE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/gifts).



> Birthday present for Luninosity, without whom a lot of my current work wouldn't be as good.

Bucky no longer moves as Steve remembers him.

Gone the awkward coltish grace, gone the gawky elegance of a boy struggling to grow into his shoulders -- and even the feral grace of the man behind the sniper rifle is gone.

Instead Bucky is a predator, skimming effortlessly through dark waters and blood, efficient in his search for prey.

And so the years have left their mark on Bucky, of that Steve is breathlessly sure, even as he moves to counter what should have been a killing blow but instead is just barely, barely leashed: a clenched fist, the prospect and the not so faraway idea of a hole torn into him, gushing life’s blood -- Steve moves, kicks out, makes contact with most of Bucky’s knee, just enough to stagger him. Had it been anyone else, had he had his shield, Steve would have followed that up with a kick to the head, with killing intent.

No shields here. No weapons except for themselves. 

Bucky dances to safety, just enough for a fast breath. Now his hands are shooting toward Steve’s throat, the elegant familiar grip of death itself on the move, and Steve’s got to think fast, think faster than the armbar and the takedown -- he steps on Bucky, bare foot planted over that vital vibrant fast-beating heart....

A smile. Hands up and clear. “Uncle,” Bucky says.

“Because that worked so well on me when we were kids,” Steve retorts with a mockery of a grin. “I gotta be ready for you to sucker-punch me. Or worse.” He unconsciously runs his hands protectively over his ribs.

And Bucky’s face falls --

The apology’s rising, racing to Steve’s mouth, and he reaches down -- 

A powerful grip. A split-second before he realizes he’s already in the air and the practice mats are rushing towards him, impact --

And the bright peal of Bucky’s honestly amused laughter, unstoppable and sweet, and Steve finds himself grinning even as he moves to trip Bucky, grapple him down.


	2. BUCKY

Steve moves differently and yet he’s still the same, Bucky thinks.

He’s bruised and he’s battered and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Throwing and being thrown, playing that prank on Steve and getting a thorough drubbing for his efforts.

Steve had moved with rage, hadn’t he? Not rage that could break glasses or plates, but rage that made him dance warily around people and things. That rage simmers just beneath the surface of Steve: a shadow around his eyes that even the best night’s sleep couldn’t wipe away, a shadow that appears deepest in the thick of the fray, in the darkest seconds of combat.

And it’s still there, banked fires, in Steve as he pads toward the elevator, as Bucky follows him, watches him.

Not much different from Bucky himself, them. The two of them dancing to angry heartbeat rhythms, even in a moment of peace, even when they’re standing still, holding hands in the elevator.

What’s happened to them is time and space apart, and the dizzying overwhelming need to cleave to one another, in these places and in these moments when they must and they can’t not.

So Bucky dogs Steve’s footsteps even though he’s supposed to be setting up for a bath: into the kitchen for a sip of orange juice and a citrus-stained kiss, into the living room to pick up a book, and Bucky waits for the hot water to almost overflow before he dashes in the lavender oil. Streamers of scent unraveling, soothing. Heavy moist air.

So Bucky wraps his arms around Steve, when they’re down to steam and bared skin; so he lets Steve cling to him, get his hands all over, soap and rinsing and massaging.

Languid kisses that could never be stolen no matter how darted and fleeting they might be. Hushed words, always heartfelt.

Bucky holds on to Steve, and whispers, “I don’t want to ever stop doing this.”

Equally softly: “‘This’ being?”

“All of this,” Bucky says. “You. Me. Together. Like you’re never allowed to leave me again. Like you’re allowed to hold on to me. Like -- ” He thinks. “Like when are we going to make honest men out of each other?”

“That sounds a lot like a proposal,” Steve says.

“It could be one.”

“You do know they’re gonna kill us for not letting them listen in to this.”

“They can all go screw themselves,” and Bucky doesn’t just mean the Avengers.

“That’s the Bucky I know. Always the romantic,” Steve teases.

“I’ll show you romantic,” and the reply is automatic, and so is the chuckle.

“Did you really just ask me to marry you?” Steve wonders after a moment.

“I’ll buy you a ring in the morning and everything,” Bucky says, and he will, he can do that, because it’s Steve.


End file.
